Peppermint, Pine, and Fresh London Air
by BlackBandit111
Summary: The time Mary hugged Sherlock...and it was the one time he let her. Friendship, no slash. Oneshot. Set in the third season between episodes one and two.


**Hello, viewers! Welcome. This is set in the third season, between episodes one and two. I just wanted to explore Sherlock and Mary's relationship a _little _bit. Just friendship- a missing scene, if you will. A little bit of a what if. I hope Sherlock's in character and I hope you enjoy reading!**

_**READ THIS! A couple of my friends want me to do a Sherlock de aged fanfic. I don't know- what do you guys think? Would it be popular? Everything would make sense of course and there wouldn't be any magical way he was turned into a kid, but I don't know. Please PM me or leave me a comment on your opinions!**_

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Sherlock Holmes had never been a particular man that needed touch. Having been a little coddled when he was younger, he was perfectly fine with a shoulder bump so long as they weren't too often- explicitly from John, of course- and did happen to know how to react when his clients felt it necessary to hug him for his discoveries and deductions. There were also a couple of pats from Lestrade on the shoulder every now and then (besides that hug that they had shared in the parking garage) and perhaps a motherly hand laid on his arm from Mrs. Hudson, but this was rare. His mother had always showered him in hugs, cuddles and maternal kisses. Sherlock had had enough for one lifetime and, frankly, touch was weak. It made his skin crawl a little when it wasn't...someone he knew well.

For instance, if a stranger went to touch him, Sherlock would recoil drastically. Perhaps it was because of the torture in the past few months that made him so subconsciously wary; perhaps it was an attempt to shield himself when his defenses were still a little damaged. Either way, it was something Sherlock knew was something he had to inspect but was unwilling to prod at for fear he would set loose a monster, a monster that had been festering in darkness for the past years of his life. Ridicule had led him to protect himself from emotions; bullying had led him to protect himself from touch. It was merely a human and logical reaction, one that was a little irrationally hard to shake and therefore harder to drop, but nonetheless it was not as if the world would end if Sherlock Holmes would not hug any random stranger.

It had lessened a little since he had gotten back, but he still flinched a little whenever someone went to lay a hand on him in some way. He pointedly ignored their concerned eyes, instead opting to insult them for believing him sentimental and then scoffing about their ridiculousness.

...It was not this way around Mary and John.

John he trusted with his life; the army doctor was about as loyal as any best friend could be. Easy to anger at times and perhaps a little miffed at him most of the time, too, but seeing as it was Sherlock who always seemed to start anything (sometimes without realizing) so it was perfectly justified. He had hurt John in more ways than he had thought possible, and despite how many times he chose to ignore it, there was something that ached in his heart.

Mary…

There was something about Mary. She was clever, not as clever as him but certainly clever enough. She was bright and laughed easily, smiled wryly when he was being particularly unbearable to John, and reassuring when he she could sense his discomfort. She was clever at sensing emotions just like he was clever at observation. She seemed to make the world focus for him, like tuning a radio to the right station without static. Slowly, she was tuning him.

So when she flat out hugged him, he froze.

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She could tell when Sherlock was uncomfortable sooner than John could- it was always when he assumed his most pompous, arrogant and distanced expression and John would straighten his shoulders and stand as tall as he could against Sherlock's towering six feet. If John only looked past the cold, calculating look, pinched lips and tight brow, he'd see Sherlock's eyes.

They always flashed a little bluer than gray when he was uncomfortable and were always more green than blue when he was amused. They turned cobalt when he was truly disturbed by something- the color they turned when John and Mary's wedding was mentioned- and turned gray when he was deducing. They were crystal blue when he was fond of something- the color they turned when they fell to John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson or even Lestrade sometimes- and they turned bright green when he was angry, like when Mycroft or Sally Donovan showed their faces. It was a mix of green and blue when he was hurt by something or another and turned steele gray when he was confused.

Was it so hard to read Sherlock's emotions when they flashed through his eyes like ready to read pages?

It was a couple weeks before her wedding when she noticed that he sat cross legged on the floor, studying something. She leaned over his shoulder and automatically placed a delicate hand there, gently, not enough to injure but enough to lean on to hold herself. He stiffened, but didn't say anything, so Mary left it.

"What are you doing?" She asked, and Sherlock huffed something frustrated at his papers and not at her. It was never pointed towards her, she noted.

"Seating plans again. God knows what will happen if Mr. Dergarge sits near the bar…" He sniffed, his nose scrunching.

Mary's brows furrowed. "The bar? But why?"

Sherlock sighed. "His shirt color." It was said in a rather bored, distant tone, which implicated that Sherlock was concentrating.

Mary's eyebrows raised. "His shirt color? What could- oh, nevermind. I don't want to know." Sherlock made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat, but didn't comment. Mary was content at the moment to gaze over his shoulder at his work, always staying silent but nevertheless following with her eyes his scratch marks and small scrawling, swirling handwriting as the pen moved across the paper. Sherlock made a small sound in his chest.

"Is there something you needed, Mary?" He asked and it sounded cool, but Mary could hear the underlying fondness, perhaps slight concern in the tone. She sighed and shook her head.

"No, Sherlock." She stepped back away from him. She was just tired. Tired of all the wedding plans and picking whether it was lilac or lavender or whether she wanted a vanilla or chocolate cake. Not to mention the diet. That was perhaps the worst part. "I'm just tired."

Sherlock's perceptive sharp yes turned abruptly towards her, darting over her body in his observation to see for himself that she wasn't brushing off an illness or something of the sort. What the bright eyes found seemed to satisfy the younger man because he nodded, stretched not unlike a cat, and then stood, long legs quivering slightly from so many hours sitting.

Realization drowned her like a tidal wave.

When people were afraid of something, they wanted to kick start it, get it over with as soon as possible. It was human nature.

Without thinking about the consequences, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing tightly. He exhaled slightly and his cool breath hit the top her head. She could feel his ribs as they expanded to take another breath. Pressing her ear to his chest, she heard the steady _ba-dump, ba-dump _of his beating heart. A very human heart. Not a sociopathic one.

Sherlock's hands hovered just above her back, lightly settling there after a few moments. His breaths were measured, careful. Calculated. Was he uncomfortable?

She squeezed again to reassure him, and he relaxed, arms settling more comfortably around her. She didn't say anything and so neither did he; they stood, wrapped in each other's arms, silent. His heart thumped wildly.

She inhaled sharply. The scents that invaded her nostrils made her eyes widen and his breathing hitch.

Sherlock pulled away slightly, clearing his throat. "Please detach yourself from my torso," he asked firmly, and Mary let go, feeling her cheeks heat up. When she continued to look at the floor, his brows furrowed. "Mary?" He inquired, a pure note of concern in his voice. "...Not good?"

He sounded so vulnerable and insecure then that Mary choked on a laugh. "No, Sherlock," she said, smiling. "It's just-"

"What?"

"...You smell like peppermint."

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "Do I?" He said, and sarcasm seeped into his voice. "Wonderfully astute observation. You can be the detective now."

She smirked. "Yes, well," She sniffed, "you also smell like pine, suspiciously. You've been in London for the past few weeks and not around any foliage, therefore it's probably the cologne you used this morning or something of the sort, seeing as Baker Street doesn't have any air refreshers or anything." She shut her eyes a moment, then smiled. "And you smell like fresh London air. I'm, honestly, not surprised, what with all the running you do outside. Your hair whipping, your coat swishing, and your scarf flapping."

He huffed. "Hm," he muttered, eyes drifting. They flickered back to her own and she had to contain her smile. "Yes, well." He cleared his throat. "I think I'll go see where John's gone off to- he's got to tell me what he wants for appetizers, I know you want the shrimp but he undoubtedly wants something different, seeing as…"

She listened until he exited the flat, donning his familiar trench coat and royal blue scarf. The door swung shut and only then did she allow the smile she'd been containing to creep onto her face.

His eyes had been a crystal blue.

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**ehm. Well I hope you enjoyed that and it made a little sense- in my other fanfiction The Windows to the Soul I mention he smells like peppermint, pine and fresh London air. I just wanted to do something with that. Thanks for reading and please leave me a comment!**


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